


His Muse

by TeamGwenee



Series: Pretty Dress Prompts [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, F/M, Fluff, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:40:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Brienne had been Jaime's muse for years. Both man and work was better through having her present.





	His Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renee561](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renee561/gifts).



> Thank you to everyone who has followed this series, I have had a lot of fun writing this very indulgent fluff.

“It's too short on this side!” Brienne insisted, tugging at the hem.

His mouth full of pins, Jaime batted her hands away from the bias cut skirt. “Arms up,” he ordered, “Any more fidgeting and I'll stick you,”

“I look ridiculous,” she huffed, resisting the urge to cross her arms over the sheer bodice.

“Of course you do,” Jaime scoffed, “It's not finished yet. And when you make that face you look like a she-hulk,”

“If it's such a problem, why don't you find somebody else?” Brienne snapped. She had spent the last two hours being stuck with pins, stuffed into garments that pinched and squeezed like a vice, with Jaime nagging her on her posture and sticking his camera in her face. And from the looks of things, they were not even half done. Half the studio Jaime had rented looked like the God of Fashion had gone out on a bender and vomited everywhere. Fabric was strewn all over the place, with racks of outfits lined up one after the other.

“Because you're my best friend in the whole world and if anyone is going to help me pass my course, it's you,” Jaime purred.

“And I'm such a clothes horse,” Brienne rolled her eyes.

“You are when I make them,” Jaime boasted, “The rest of the time you look like a troll,”

“Thanks,” Brienne muttered.

“Don't sulk,” he chided, “And you should like this dress. It looks like chain mail,”

The mesh like fabric had a silver-blue sheen to it, the draping bodice held in by a chunky black belt. Jaime paired it with black bracelets and spiky hair.

“It suits you,” he assured her, “You still look like Brienne. Just a much, _much_ better version,”

Brienne almost laughed. “You're not even trying not to be insulting are you?”

“Stop trying to change me!” Jaime protested, “You knew I had a heart of stone and a tongue of poison when you became my friend,”

“And you're not trying to change me?”

“Just your clothes,” Jaime insisted, “And only for my portfolio,” he smiled at her pityingly, “I don't expect to convert you to a fashionista. Good taste is innate, it cannot be taught,”

“I agree,” Brienne said seriously, dropping her arms, “If I had any, I wouldn't be friends with you,”

Jaime stuck her with his pin.

“You fidgeted,” he said simply as she shrieked in protest.

#

Ten years had gone since Brienne first modelled for Jaime, and very little had changed between the two. Brienne was his muse, and Jaime could only do his best work for her. And his best work was very good indeed. So much so that he had become something of a celebrity, Brienne along with him. She had become one of Westeros's most coveted models. Which was remarkable in that she did not even consider herself to be a model, and in fact spent most of her time slaving away in overalls over engines.

Seeing her gowned in an artfully tattered wedding gown with a trailing tulle skirt, lounging among the Gothic ruins of Harrenhal, one would never have pictured her buried away in an a garage, splattered with oil. Her pale skin and ringed eyes stood out starkly from the blue black stones of the castle. It was at times like this; though he would never admit it, that Jaime felt a flutter from merely looking at her.

It was because of the dress, he told himself. The dress he had designed. It was a masterpiece. Pearls and diamonds studded the bodice and the ombre skirt faded to grey, giving Brienne the impression she had just swept through the ash and dust of the castle's ruins. She didn't look beautiful. She looked something more than that, powerful and otherworldly. The cross between an avenging goddess and an ancient ghost from the days of knights and songs.

“Phwoar!” a rough Northern voice broke out.

Jaime turned round in annoyance, trying to see who had broken him from his reverie.

Wild masses of ginger hair and lascivious eyes gazed back at him, a smile lurking beneath his thick beard. Jaime recognised him as one of the handymen.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” the man said.

Jaime nodded stiffly. “I spent weeks on the gown,” he admitted, “I'm glad it seems to work,”

“What?” the man muttered absent-mindedly, “Yes, the gown. Very pretty looking thing,” he patted Jaime's shoulder, “I'm not sure what man spends his time making pretty dresses, but it's very good. No, I was talking about _that,_ ”

Jaime followed the man's eyes and realised _that_ was in fact _her._

“Do you mean Brienne?” he said, swallowing his disgust.

“Aye, the big woman,” the man nodded, feasting on Brienne as he watched her rest against a chunk of stone. “She's going to have my babies!” he announced.

Jaime blinked. “Is she aware of that?” he near scoffed.

“If she doesn't, she soon will,” the man boasted, striding away “That could be her wedding dress. Just think, you could even design my wedding suit,”

Jaime's jaw clenched as he watched the man's back.

“Design his wedding suit?” he repeated, the words sour on his tongue, “How about I throw in your shroud as well?”

#

“Watch out for the ginger handyman,” Jaime warned as he helped fit a long grey silk shawl with a torn hem over her shoulders.

“Tormund?” Brienne asked with a grimace, “He's been on my case for a while now,” she admitted.

“And he still doesn't know your name?”

Brienne turned to him with wide, innocent eyes. “You mean to say I am not in fact called 'the big woman'? I would never have known,” she said bitterly.

Jaime smoothed out her gargantuan train, feeling the fabric caress his fingers.

“If he gives you any more trouble,” he said firmly, “Tell me,”

“And we will report him to HR?” Brienne questioned.

“And I will see him impaled with my embroidery needles,” Jaime corrected, “And stuff his hand into my sewing machine,”

“I think that might be overkill,” Brienne said sceptically, “I say let's go to HR first,”

“As you will,” Jaime nodded, placing his hands on Brienne's shoulders and taking her in with an artist's eye. “But if he breathes another word about marrying you in _my_ dress, there is no telling what my needles will do to him,”

“It is a beautiful dress,” Brienne said, “But it's not worth violence,”

“Never tell an artist that,” Jaime ordered, stepping forward, his breath hot on her cool skin, “Besides it's not just a gown, it's the gown you are going to marry me in,”

Brienne stepped back, quirking an eyebrow. “I am, am I?” she asked, “Do I get a say?”

“Of course you do,” Jaime assured her, “You can choose any dress you wish. But one of us is going to wear this one. So if you don't, I will,”

 


End file.
